Out of Time
by tinypinkmouse
Summary: Stuck in a strange world, injured, helpless and without a penny to his name, Harry doesn't have much choice about accepting whatever help he's offered. Even if that help comes from one overly suspicious John Winchester.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings:** Language, nudity, blood, implied character death, implied suicide.

**Author's Notes:** Thank you to **unikorento** for the beta and for being there to listen to me panicking about everything. Thank you to **karahalliwell** for the absolutely beautiful art, and for working with just half of the story. And lastly a very big thank you to the mods of **sncross_bigbang** for being so understanding about my stupidity and general lateness.

There is accompanying art, you can find the link in my profile since I obviously can't post it here.

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><p>John doesn't understand people who'd willingly go about summoning a demon. If they've gone through all the trouble of finding out <em>how<em> to do it they couldn't damn well have avoided finding out how much of a bad idea it is. It's plain stupid, that's what it is. If they had a lick of sense they'd know that. But hell, over the years John's learned that there's no underestimating how stupid some people can be. Most of them just don't see the truth, even when it's staring them right in the face.

He aims centre mass and doesn't hesitate to pull the trigger. Anyone stupid enough to want to summon a demon is better off dead. He isn't in any mood to try out an exorcism if he doesn't have to, and at least this way he'll spare the life of some poor bastard the demon would have possessed. He hasn't really seen too many demons himself, but from what he knows of them they always ride their hosts hard; the people don't usually live to tell the tale.

The guy falls dead to the floor, words cut off mid chant. An easy job for once and no bullets wasted. It's a fair deal, John thinks; one human dead and one demon still stuck in hell where it belongs.

Well, that's what he thought at least. He _thought_ he stopped the chant in time.

The shadows twist and writhe. The air crackles and sparks and he can smell ozone in the air. John aims his gun, even though he doesn't know what the fuck to aim it at, and takes a step back. The shadows coalesce and it's like a black a hole into nothing, something he hasn't got the words to describe. As soon as it forms, a body tumbles out of it and falls to the ground. Electricity crackles through the darkness and it explodes into nothingness, or maybe it just falls in on itself. Whatever it was is gone, and the only thing left is the smell of ozone and the new body on the floor.

John's damn sure he's never seen anything like it, he's never even _heard_ of anything like it. He's pretty sure that that's not how demons show up though. John's more than ready to admit that there's still too much he doesn't know about the supernatural, that there'll always be things he won't know. But John's made a point of learning anything he can about demons, how else was he gonna find a way to kill the son of a bitch that took his Mary, and he doesn't think he's wrong about this.

He keeps the gun trained on the body on the floor. Even from where he's standing he can see that it's torn up pretty bad. No, not torn up, more like beat up. One arm lies at a strange angle and he thinks he can see the end of a bone in an obviously broken leg. He knows there's probably more.

Whatever kind of monster this is, it ain't getting up anytime soon.

John points his gun steadily at the body and walks around it until he can see its face. It looks like a kid, older than his boys but not by much. Its clothes are torn, but the only blood is on the leg with the bone sticking out. Still, it looks pretty much like it should be dead.

He's almost surprised when it blinks open green eyes and looks at him. They're even brighter than Dean's eyes, which tend a bit toward hazel at times.

It tries to speak and blood bubbles up from its mouth. "Lily?" it manages to whisper. It coughs and blood spatters from its mouth. "Is she all right?" it asks weakly and John sees hope, fear and desperation flicker over its face and in the brilliantly green eyes.

"I don't know," he finds himself answering in a tone that's almost sympathetic. It's hard to hate anything that seems that broken. The thing looks too much like a kid for god's sake, and John's still a human being and a dad. And this here looks like a desperate, scared kid.

It closes its eyes, but not before John catches a glimpse of raw pain. He's seen pain like that before, fresh and sharp and so heavy it drowns out everything else. He saw it in Dean's eyes once – can still see the echoes of it if he dares to look.

It's not human, John reminds himself. He pulls a flask of holy water out of his jacket with one hand and thumbs it open. He splashes some of the water on it. It opens its eyes again as some of the water hits it in the face, but that's the only reaction John gets.

"What are you, kid?" he asks and winces inwardly at the 'kid' that slips out.

It's breathing in short gasps. It looks at John and he isn't sure, but it seems like it's thinking about how to answer him. Or then it's just in too much pain by now to even know what it's doing.

"Going to… shoot me?" It seems to take quite a bit of effort to get that out. John supposes he can't blame it for not being in a sharing mood when someone's pointing a gun at it. He wouldn't be either, if the situation was reversed.

"It doesn't look like I need to. You're doing a good job of dying on your own."

It sounds like it's choking and it takes a moment for John to realise that it's trying to laugh. Or really, he thinks, probably trying not to laugh with the shape it's in.

"Bloody hell," it whispers once it gets the laughing under control. "That…" More blood trickles out of its mouth. "…hurt."

John bites back the smile tugging at his own lips. At least the thing has a sense of humour. In its present condition, more pain probably doesn't matter all that much anyway.

"Either help me," it tells him with effort. "Or shoot me." And John gets that, he's felt like that in the past.

He looks at the kid. He isn't sure that there's much he can do to help, and he's even less sure if he should. Actually, he's pretty sure that he probably shouldn't help, it's not like any of this can be anything good. But he wants some answers. He _needs_ answers.

If he wants anything at all from it, it'll need to get to a hospital, because there's no way the kid's staying alive without professional help. It shouldn't be alive as it is, not looking like that.

It's a good thing his boys are staying with Jim. If the kid lives John'll have to stick around to make sure it doesn't do anything before he can get the answers he wants.

Mind made up, John crouches down in front of the kid, and if possible the kid looks even worse off up close. He reaches for the silver knife he keeps in his boot, because you never know when you'll need a piece of sharp silver.

The kid's eyes follow his movements. It isn't like he could do much else, he looks all too broken to be able to move much – or at all. Besides, John still has the gun in one hand and he isn't about to let it down anytime soon.

He looks the kid over; the clothes are ripped to pieces and there are fresh bruises all over him, but John can't see any open wounds, except for the one with the bone sticking out. But John would bet anything that there's bleeding inside, probably broken ribs, and if the fact that he's coughing up blood is any indication, his lungs aren't doing too good either. John is no medic, but he's seen his share of injuries and death and this... this looks bad, maybe too bad. If he wants the kid to have a chance to live, John needs to get help and fast.

"Just making sure," John says and presses the edge of the knife to the bare skin on the kid's left arm where it shows through the ragged clothing. He presses down and draws the knife forward, leaving a short, bleeding cut. The kid looks at him, but doesn't even wince. And maybe it's just that the pain he's already in is just too much for anything else to even register.

"So kid, you have a name?" He almost doesn't believe himself, he's actually trying to sound comforting. Somehow he doesn't think the kid's buying it, what with the gun John's still holding.

"Harry," the kid whispers anyway, as John fishes out his handy little container of salt.

"Salt," he tells the kid before pouring some on him, making sure not to get any into the wound he just made – even he's not that much of a bastard when there's no call for it. Maybe this isn't the surest way to do it, but the kid's in no condition for him to go forcing salt down his throat just to make sure, and this should be good enough for now. The kid doesn't react to the salt any more than he did to the holy water or the silver.

"You seem human enough," John mumbles and then starts carefully searching through the kid's clothes. There are other tests, but none John can do right here and now. The kid's eyes are starting to droop and it's about time, because it just isn't natural for him to seem so lucid while looking like that. "I just need to see if you have any ID on you," John explains because the look those tired green eyes are giving him isn't anywhere near trusting.

"Look kid," he says while he continues to search for any sort of identification. "I don't trust you any, but I'm not gonna leave you here to die." He pauses when he finds a pouch on the kid's belt that reminds him a bit too much of witches. It's far too heavy to be any kind of hex bag he's ever seen, though.

John opens the pouch and finds it filled with coins, and most of them look like gold. That's definitely more than weird, but not really an obvious sign of evil. "I'll call 911, but I'll stick around. As soon as they get you to a hospital, I'll be there," he warns the kid. "I'll tell them you're my kid. And you better play along."

The kid's eyes widen slightly and and it seems like a huge effort on his part to lift those eyes enough to meet John's. But that's no wonder really – the kid being conscious at all is miracle enough. His forhead crunches up slightly as he looks into John's eyes.

"Okay."

Well then, the kid at least seems to have gotten the point. Not that John would bet on it, he is pretty out of it.

John stands up.

The kid coughs wetly.

"Wait." John barely hears the whisper.

He stops and looks down at the kid. He's moving his left hand slowly, and at least that isn't broken then. John can see the whole arm is trembling and whatever it is that the kid's trying to do, it looks like it's hard going.

"Here." It isn't so much a word as the kid's lips moving. He's trying to move the sleeve on his broken right arm, but his fingers don't seem to be doing what he's trying to tell them.

The kid's lips are moving again, but John can't make out the words. He crouches down, even if he knows it might still be a trick. But really, it'd have to be down right desperate at this point, and John just can't see what the kid could do, because there's no way he's faking those injuries.

"Take it," he whispers or at least that's what it sounds like to John. It doesn't make much sense, but the kid's looking at him with eyes far too intense for someone who's on the verge of passing out.

John pushes up the sleeve on the broken arm. There's a holster of some kind, it looks a bit like what you might use to hide a knife up your sleeve, but this thing isn't holding any kind of blade. There's a piece of slender wood, about the length of the kid's forearm. And isn't the kid lucky that his arm broke higher, because John doesn't think that that twig wouldn't have snapped right along with the arm, and it seems like that thing is important to him.

"What the hell are you, kid?" John asks, but it's not loud enough for him to hear. He unclasps the whole holster, but the kid seems to finally have lost his fight against unconsciousness.

To John the stick would look a hell of a lot like a magic wand, if that just didn't sound so stupid. But the idea must have come from somewhere, so why couldn't it be true? John's seen weirder things for sure. The kid could be a witch. There's no saying if a witch would have reacted to any of John's little tests. Witches are still human enough, they just get their powers from something that ain't. All it costs them is their souls.

John takes the wand with him when he leaves. He still can't be sure that the kid isn't just a victim of circumstance, because it sure as hell didn't look like the kid meant to be there. And hell, he isn't going to change his mind about getting the kid help now.

He can always kill him later if he has to.

* * *

><p>It's ridiculously easy to convince the hospital staff that the kid is his. Actually, there's no convincing involved – it isn't like anybody was doubting him. He calls the hospital with a description and a name, and asks about his missing kid. He's just like any other worried parent, desperate enough to start calling hospitals. And John's got enough fake ID's with kids attached, so that isn't a problem.<p>

Of course the cops get involved – an anonymous phone call, a dead body with a gunshot wound and a kid beaten to an inch of his life? There's no way the cops won't get involved. Of course it would've been easier if they didn't, but it isn't anything he can't handle. He tells them he and his kid are just passing through. Well, they were supposed to be passing through, and they hadn't even meant to stay the night. They'd just stopped for a few hours and the kid wanted some time to himself – who can blame him really; a teenager stuck in a car with his old man four hours on end… But then Harry didn't show up where they were supposed to meet and that wasn't at all like him.

It's not much of a cover story, but it'll do, as long as the kid doesn't go contradicting it. All the kid needs to say is that he got grabbed and beaten and doesn't know anything else. The way he's looking, no one's going to be accusing him of lying about being unconcious through most of it.

Nothing's gone wrong yet, and that might just be pure dumb luck, but it's probably got more to do with the fact that no one's been able to talk to Harry yet, seeing as how he's still in surgery. Has been for a while now, and they don't seem none too sure if he'll make it or not.

John's pretty sure that the staff thinks he looks the picture of a worried dad, and sure, he's anxious enough that it's not much trouble to pull that off. But it's not like he's worried for the reason they think. It's not his kid in there, might not even be a kid at all in any way that matters. No, John's not upset because he thinks the kid ain't gonna make it, because while he sure as hell wants to know what the fuck happened out there, he's more worried about the kid staying alive. With the state he was in earlier, it just doesn't seem right – he shoudln't be alive. And if the kid buys it... well it's out of John's hands then. Not his choice, not his responsibility.

And there's not going to be any use in wondering why exactly that'd be such a relief. If the kid turns out to be a witch, there's no reason for John to feel any guilt about putting him down.

John shifts in his seat, tries to find a more comfortable position in the damn chair but it isn't happening; it seems like they're all designed to be as uncomfortable as possible. He's been sitting in this one long enough to know, and it just keeps getting worse. Like any hunter, John doesn't like spending time in hospitals, they always mean that something's gone wrong. Wrong enough that you can't patch it up yourself. And John isn't used to sitting in a hospital waiting for someone else either, he usually makes sure there's no reason to. At least it's not one of his boys in there.

There isn't much else he can do but wait at this point. He already called Jim, let him know that he'd gotten caught up in something and wouldn't be back for a while yet. He doesn't need to ask if it's okay for Jim to keep the boys for a bit longer – Jim doesn't mind the boys being around, and the boys like being there – but of course he asks anyway, and, of course, Jim agrees to look out for them.

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><p>Harry's not sure how much time passes by, he only catches the world around him in small glimpses. He wakes up too often, he gets that much from a comment from someone – he's not sure who said it, he's not too sure of far too many things at the moment – and Harry more than agrees. He wouldn't mind being awake a lot less; he feels like absolute shite. But they say the medication should keep him asleep, and there's something about it that just sounds wrong, but everything fades away before he can quite realise what it is.<p>

He never stays awake for very long and it takes awhile – he has no idea how long – to form some sort of picture of what's going on. He knows he's at a hospital, a muggle one, even if it doesn't make much sense, whatever happened – shouldn't someone have found him by now, moved him to a proper hospital?

He remembers... surgery? There are only small pieces of memories, bits that don't seem to make much sense on their own, but he thinks that's what it has to be. None of those memories are pleasant. Muggle medicine just doesn't work quite like it should when it comes to wizards, maybe because, for whatever reason, wizards seem to be a bit harder to break than your average muggle. The reason doesn't really matter to him, but the effects are nothing he wants to experience when he's stuck in the middle of a muggle surgery and people start panicking.

He has a feeling that it was a bit more than just close at some point in there, but he's not sure, and he really doesn't care to remember any more of it.

Things are slowly getting more clear though, not that that's saying much. He's not so sure he wants them to.

Someone's telling him about all the things that are broken in him, and to Harry it sounds like that's pretty close to everything. It feels like it too.

Right now, he'd give up quite a bit for a good dose of pain-relieving potion and some skele-grow. At least with skele-grow you know the pain will be over soon.

Every time he wakes up there's someone asking questions, or at least that's the way it seems to him. There was the police at some point. And the doctors want to know about his allergies, that must be because of how his body reacts to the medicines. He can't really tell any of them much, so he says he isn't sure, it seems like the best way to go. It's not hard to seem confused, and when he tells them he doesn't remember no one doubts him.

He wishes it was more of an act, but then he thinks, maybe he doesn't want to remember.

And almost every time he wakes up, the man that found him is there. At some point he decides that it's a good sign; at least there's a chance he'll get his wand back. In his more lucid moments he wonders if giving up his wand might not have been one of the stupidest things he's ever done, and he has admittedly had time for a lot of stupid things in his life. But there hadn't seemed much choice at the time, act of desperation and all that. It had sounded like he was sending Harry to a muggle hospital and who knows what would have happened to his wand then, at least he knows who has it now.

A doctor is telling him that whatever pain relief they've been giving him – he really knows next to nothing about this muggle side of things – isn't working anymore. His body's grown used to it too fast or something, he's not entirely sure if that makes sense.

_Thank you doctor, I noticed. _But no, of course that's not what he says.

"It's all right doctor, I'm alive. I think I can live with a bit of pain." And maybe the words don't come out as clearly as he means them to, but he thinks they'll probably not hold that against him.

It really isn't just a bit of pain, and there's no way they don't all know that. It's a whole lot of constant agony. Harry's suffered through the Cruciatus curse more times than he cares to remember, and he thinks that might have been worse. But the curse always ends, sooner or later, even if it might not feel like that at the time, but this pain… it just goes on with no end in sight. There's no way to fight back, no way to make it stop.

It's not bad enough to drive him insane, not like the Cruciatus when it goes on and on. At least he doesn't think it is. And it's a different kind of pain, not just in his mind like the curse always is with nothing to anchor it into reality. It does make a difference.

Harry can live with this, he thinks. There's not much choice.

And the doctor's off telling him about other things they can give him to make him feel better. He doesn't listen to half of it and understands even less. He knows it will make no difference.

"Really, I'll be fine," he says and tries to sound like he actually means it.

The pain relief would be nice, it'd be very, very nice, but he's quite sure it wouldn't work for very long anyway. Besides, he's realised that muggle medicine makes him disoriented, and he has a feeling that he'll need his wits about him sooner rather than later. Well, that is, if he can manage to get some sort of handle on the thrice damned mind numbing pain his body is subjecting him to.

The doctor isn't happy and Harry has had enough experience with Healers that he didn't much expect anything else. He doesn't really care. The doctor isn't the only one feeling less than thrilled. Harry isn't feeling all that happy about the situation either. There's not a lot either one of them can do about it though.

The man who found him, who is almost always there, is sitting in a chair watching them. Harry looks toward him, and he thinks that the man told him that he's supposed to pass for Harry's father to these people. It's one of the things that aren't too clear in his mind, but he's here and he keeps being here and that must mean something.

Harry's tired and he hurts and he really wants to be unconscious again.

He looks at the man. "You tell them," he says and the words slur together to the point where he doesn't know if anyone understands him, but it's the best he can do.

The next time he wakes up, he thinks vaguely, he'll just have to try and manage to live through the pain some other way. He's had practice.

And things slide into black.

* * *

><p>The kid's in a hospital bed and won't be going anywhere soon. Both his legs are in casts and so's his right arm. The fingers of his right hand are wrapped up and his chest is sporting bandages, and there are all kinds of bruises and stitches inside him that John can't see. He's heard enough of it to know that when they tell him that it's a miracle the kid's alive at all, they really mean it.<p>

John tried to look happy about the news when they told him. The being alive part, not the injuries. Truth be told, he isn't all that surprised that the kid lived. He figured if the kid was still alive long enough for John to call for help… well, he'd have already died by then if he was going to.

John's seen miracles before and they ain't ever been anything good.

The kid… Harry, has been in and out of consciousness for days. They had him on a morphine drip at first, but he built up a tolerance for it way too fast. And that does nothing at all to make John feel any better about this whole thing.

They can't up the dosage any more, and so they had to take him off the morphine completely. They would have put him on something else, probably not as effective, but better than nothing anyway, but the kid disagreed.

Yeah, he disagreed alright, and then conveniently passed out and left John to deal with the fallout. And since there's a chance the kid had good reason to say no, John makes up an almost believable story about how Harry just don't react to medication like he should. It's not much effort on John's part – it's not like they hadn't noticed already.

Well at least since he's pretty much tied up in the bed, he'll stay put while John asks him some questions. He wonders if it would have been easier to get answers out of him while he was doped up on morphine, but maybe the answers will make more sense like this. Unless the pain's too much for the kid. John thinks it probably should be.

John's been waiting for the doctor to be by and the nurses to leave, and he's kind of surprised that Harry's stayed awake through all of it. He's not sure how long that's going to last, but at least they're alone for once.

"So, kid, are you gonna stay awake for now?"

By the look on his face that's the stupidest question he's heard so far.

"Well I don't feel like I'm going to fall asleep right this minute," he says at last.

It's probably the best John's going to get. He just needs a few moments anyway, because it's high time John got some information out of him. He's got other things to do than baby-sit possible monsters.

"In that case you're gonna tell me exactly what the hell you are, and how the hell you ended up in that house," he growls. No need to beat around the bush. "And what was that _thing _you gave me?"

The kid looks at him and the sides of his mouth turn up a bit, like he's fighting off a smile.

"I don't know how I ended up there, I don't even know where I am right now." The words aren't even slurred, and it's the first time John really notices the clear English accent. Earlier when he'd been coughing up blood with every word or slurring through sleep and pain it hadn't been possible to make out much of any kind of accent at all. "Since everyone here sounds American, I'm reasonably sure this is America. But that's about all I know." To John's ears he sounds more annoyed than worried, even though there's enough of the worry too. If John was in Harry's place he supposes he'd be plenty of both.

"You're at Chambers Memorial Hospital, Danville, Arkansas," John tells him shortly.

"Thank you." The kid seems to give it some thought. "Even if that tells me very little."

John _almost_ smiles at that. It shouldn't be this hard to dislike the kid. Not that he's any less suspicious, but sometimes he still has to remind himself that he isn't in the habit of letting his guard down around anything that might still very well be some kind of monster.

"How about answering the rest of the questions?"

The kid keeps looking at him with those damned brilliantly green eyes. Like he can see more than John wants him to.

He's starting to get to John. And if John's honest with himself, the kid's been doing that from the start. There's no way for John to be sure if he's doing it on purpose, somehow, or if it's just the fact that he doesn't look much older than John's own boys.

He shouldn't be having this kind of problem.

John's been sitting here waiting, with nurses coming in and out and there's no way he could stop himself from thinking what he'd be doing if that was Dean or Sam on that bed, and not some kid he doesn't know and whose dad he's just pretending to be.

"It would be polite to introduce yourself before starting the interrogation." The kid sounds like he's chiding John for making an awkward social blunder. Because interrogations in general are such polite things. "I already told you my name," Harry adds with a polite sort of smile.

"John," he grates out and it feels like a concession.

Harry looks at him and somehow manages to combine a question with mild rebuke into the lines of his face and that piercing gaze. Like John's the kid in this scenario, and a rude one at that.

"Winchester," John adds grudgingly, because he has the feeling the kid just won't say anything until he does. At least that's what he tells himself, because that's definitely information he didn't plan on sharing, and it came out all too easy. He should have lied. "But we're both going by Perry at the moment."

The kid blinks and then lets out a groan, his expression shifting into one of disbelief. "The hospital staff think my name is Harry Perry?"

John has to admit that that sounds… stupid, but it's normal enough and he doesn't have that many fake ID's with him. Especially one's that carry health insurance.

"Yeah, you got something to say about it, kid?" John asks and somehow it comes out sounding more like friendly banter than anything else.

The kid's shoulders twitch in a way that makes John think that if he was able to move a bit more it would have been a shrug. "I've been called worse." The smile seems to brighten the green eyes even more and it's damned hard not to smile back. "I'll just have to tell everyone my father is terrible at names."

There's something about it that makes John feel like they're sharing something, and he scowls as he fights down the urge to confirm that with a smile of his own.

"Now kid, how did you end up at that house?" John insists, trying to get his supposed interrogation back on track. John suspects that he's lost any chance he had of appearing intimidating. Especially since Harry's probably well aware that John can't exactly do all that much here, the kid's under pretty close observation.

"Like I said, I really don't know. There was an attack, I think." There's that same pain and desperation in the kid's eyes again that John had seen earlier. "I tried to get Lily out of the way and then…" The kid trails off and John's talked to too many grieving people not to recognise that tone – whatever happened, Harry doesn't want to think about it. "The next thing I know for certain is falling to that floor and hurting like hell." Harry closes his eyes for a moment. "This is probably going to sound completely barmy, but everything… this place... is _wrong_."

"What do you mean wrong?"

The kid sighs and focuses those all too bright eyes on John again. "Well for one, I was in Scotland," he says pointedly, like John should somehow have known that. "And I haven't been around," he bites down on the next word and hesitates for a bit, "hospitals very much. But I'm almost sure that they should be more… advanced."

At first that just makes no damn sense at all, and then when he realises what it sounds like the kid is saying... No. No way in hell is he saying what John thinks he is. Because sure, John's seen some weird shit out there – some really fucking weird shit – but this takes the cake. If he actually believed it.

"John." It's strange to hear his name from the kid, too personal, when he's trying to remember that he might still have to put this thing down. He sounds nervous, pleading almost. "How old do I look?"

John frowns. "Sixteen or seventeen, maybe." Lying there bruised and battered, more bandage and plaster cast than human, the kid looks even younger really, so damned helpless and vulnerable.

John really wants to know where he's going with that question.

"Of course." The voice sounds too hollow, and John has no idea what the emotion deep in those green eyes is. John doesn't want to look at it for too long. "That's what I was afraid of," Harry says quietly.

Those eyes, they seem like they go on forever, and John has the sudden strange thought that if he keeps looking at them he'll get lost in the empty darkness behind them.

John blinks and looks away.

"Lily is my daughter," Harry tells him calmly and pauses. John feels the sudden weight gathering in the air, the significance of what the kid is going to say is almost tangible.

And when he finally says something, John has no idea what he's supposed to think. Because it really makes no sense.

"My fifty three year old daughter."

* * *

><p>Harry stares up at the ceiling. There isn't much else he can do.<p>

John has left to wherever it is he goes. Harry wouldn't be surprised if he just needed some time to think about what Harry told him. After all, time travel? Supposed de-aging? John's no wizard, and even Harry isn't quite sure what to think about his own growing suspicions about what's happened to him.

He's kind of grateful to be alone for once; he wouldn't mind the distraction from... everything, but the man's presence is a bit unsettling. It's been a long time, but some things about John Winchester remind him uncomfortably of Mad-Eye Moody.

The telly's on, but the noise is muted, and as distractions go it's not worth much. And Harry can't exactly use the remote control, since he can't bloody well move, and neither of his hands is much use for grabbing things at the moment anyway.

He doesn't want to think about things. Doesn't want to think about what it all might mean. He knows he has to, needs to figure out what to do now. But he can feel the dark edges of desperation creeping up the moment he starts to think about everything.

Harry stares at the ceiling and breathes in slowly. Breathes out. Empties his mind. He can feel the pain of all his injuries fraying at his concentration. He knows how to ignore it though, or at least how to not notice it enough so that it doesn't disturb him. It took him years to learn this hard won discipline over his own mind. He pushes the pain to the edges of his consciousness. It's nothing but background noise, insignificant.

He remembers the events in horrifying detail. The crisp winter air, the snow crunching under their boots as they walk down the quiet path up to Lily's house. If he wanted to, he could recite every word of their conversation.

There's a pop. Someone's apparated. Impossible, but still there and despite the instincts that the years have ingrained in him there's no time to draw his wand as he shoves Lily away.

Then there's only darkness.

He thinks there was darkness for a very long time. It's hard to tell. The tumble out into light and pain was something... unexpected and after that nothing has made sense anymore.

It's all _wrong__,_even more so than what he told John. It's not just the wrong time and the wrong country. Everything, the whole world, feels wrong. He saw it in John Winchester's mind, the memories of things that aren't like they should be. Images of things that Harry almost recognises, but so vastly _different_.

And the clearest images when he looks into John's eyes are of witches that have sold their souls for power, blood magic and dark rituals, and Harry knows what John suspects. But still, it's almost worse when he looks into John's eyes and sees two young boys.

Sees a green eyed, freckled young boy flung into a wall by some invisible force.

Sees a crying baby and the green eyed boy even youngee.

Sees a dark figure crouched over a boy in a bed.

Sees John carefully sewing a gash on a boys arm.

Sees the quiet sobs and the trembling.

Sees the boy bite through his own lip to stay quiet.

Memory after memory of two boys, hurt, in danger and Harry doesn't want to see anymore. Doesn't want to think of his own children.

He knows he should be grateful. Grateful that in an unguarded moment those are the things that John remembers. That he sees John's children, in danger, hurt, in pain, frightened. As long as John looks at Harry and remembers those things, Harry's chances of staying in John's good graces are far better.

Now and then he's made a little nudge. Not much, not enough to be able to say that he really changes John's mind about anything. He wouldn't do something like that, not if it isn't absolutely necessary. Because Harry knows what it feels like to take control of others, to quietly whisper _Imperio _and have them at his mercy. He remembers that heady feeling of control, and it's such a slippery slope. You can't cast a spell if you don't want to, you can't control someone unless you want to. So now Harry just nudges, just enough that there are more images of John's boys than there are of horrific rituals and dark sacrifices.

It's the only thing Harry can do. Everything here is wrong and Harry can only lie in a bed and hurt, and wait.

* * *

><p>Time blurs into a large shapeless thing that doesn't make much sense to Harry anymore. He can't tell how long he's been lying in this hospital bed, can't tell how long it's been since he regained consciousness. He doesn't even know when he had that conversation with John. There's pain and boredom, interspersed with occasional bits of conversation, and after a while he can't tell those apart either.<p>

He practices his Occlumency every day, but only just enough. He can manage the pain that way if he needs to, and he did at first, but now he does it not so much because of the pain, but because he needs to be sure that he can keep his shields up when he has to. He isn't sure who he can trust in this strange place. If he can trust anyone at all. He doesn't think he should.

When the police stopped coming to ask their questions and John stopped being there every time he wakes up, and even the nurses started coming by less often… Harry let the pain blur everything into something he doesn't need to worry about.

He can't keep it up for too long, he knows that. Of course he does. The pain his body is feeling will lessen with time and the world and all the decisions he's avoiding will still be waiting for him. You can't hide forever, the truth always catches up with you sooner or later.

Reality comes crashing back, like a herd of stampeding hippogriffs, even sooner than he thought it would. When it does slam into him again, he still can't really move, he's still hurting like hell, and he's still as good as bound to the hospital bed.

What isn't at all surprising is that reality comes by the way of John Winchester and a sudden escape from the hospital. Well, Harry calls it escape, since they vanish in the middle of the night without letting anyone know. That might not be a good sign, but Harry can't help but feel grateful about being out of there.

* * *

><p>Getting Harry out of the hospital isn't going to be too much fun for anyone involved. But the doctors are saying he's healing better than expected, and that's reason enough for John to get him out of there sooner rather than later. They're already wondering about Harry's reactions to the medicines, and it's not just that; the longer he stays at the hospital the bigger the risk that their IDs won't hold up. Now that he knows he's not going to accidentally kill Harry by sneaking him out, it's high time they both got out of town.<p>

John has a plan about how to get Harry out of the hospital. It's not a very detailed plan, since a lot of stuff depends on the situation. It won't be easy, but it won't be impossible. The security in the place isn't that tight.

It turns out that there are some practical issues John might have wanted to give some thought, like the catheter. That's definitely more intimacy than John was ever planning on.

He hesitates for a moment, hand half way to pulling away that ridiculous hospital gown they always make you wear. The situation – what he's about to do – feels faintly _wrong._

"I'm sure you've seen one before," Harry says, his voice quiet, but calm and almost soothing. For a moment John thinks maybe Harry's trying to calm him down. He glances at Harry's face and gets a weirdly encouraging smile.

John snorts and grabs the hospital gown. "I don't usually put my hands on anyone else's," he mutters as he moves the gown out of the way. He really tries not to look too much, even if that's pretty much impossible and he can't help but notice that Harry isn't circumcised. And he's stuck for a moment on how strange that looks.

He's been on the other end of this once and he remembers it well enough, he thinks. Somehow it's not the kind of thing a man forgets easily. Especially the part where the doctor tells you they need to drain the balloon keeping the whole thing in place, or it'll hurt like hell pulling the tube outta your dick, that part kind of sticks in the mind. Except John's got no handy syringe around to do that with – besides he's not sure he'd do it right anyway – and he's pretty sure just yanking the thing out won't be a good idea.

"John?" Harry asks and John looks up to meet his eyes. "Is there a problem?"

John can't really believe how damn calm Harry still sounds, like he isn't lying helpless and as good as naked on a bed. And with someone he has no good reason to trust at all about to go putting his hands in rather sensitive places. There's no good way to tell him that John isn't quite sure how to do this, and that it might actually hurt like hell.

Harry sighs. "Try cutting the smaller tube," he suggests.

That's... not the worst idea ever, even if the he thinks the result is probably going to be kinda disgusting. But John's raising two boys, has fought in a war, and hunts monsters on regular basis, a bit of piss isn't going to scare him away.

It's not quite that simple – they end up having to get Harry up in a weird sitting position at the edge of the bed – but in the end the little plastic tube slides out almost on its own and John's pretty sure they're both grateful for that.

Actually getting Harry out of the hospital turns out to be the easy part of the evening. Getting him into the wheelchair John had gotten was damn well harder than wheeling him out of there. Maybe it's pure dumb luck, and at the moment John isn't about to question it too much, especially since nothing else is going their way.

The Impala is really not made for anyone with two broken legs, not to mention the broken arm, smashed fingers and all the bruises you can't even see from the outside. A lot of it has gotten better, but the casts are still all there, as well as the bandages on Harry's hand. He's not about to keel over dead all of a sudden on account of his injuries. The thing is though, there's no way you can just shove Harry inside the car – or anywhere else – without causing a hell of a lot of pain, and maybe injuring him more.

There isn't much Harry could do to make the process easier, even if he wanted to – stuck with that many casts, he hasn't got much manoeuvrability. No, the only thing he can do to help is keep quiet and suffer through. But it's down right disturbing the way Harry doesn't protest at all when John pulls and shoves and finally manages to get him into the backseat.

At least he's small enough that it shouldn't get too uncomfortable, as much as anything can be comfortable when you're as beat up as Harry is.

John's not sure, but he thinks Harry might have passed out some time after that, because the first hour of the drive he might as well be alone for all the noise the kid makes. The first thing he does hear from the backseat is a faintly apologetic; "I need to use the loo."

The meaning of the words doesn't really register right away, but the tone is more than familiar – he's heard it enough times travelling with two young boys – and John bites back a curse. Why was it that this situation hadn't entered his mind earlier, when he was going through all the trouble of getting rid of the catheter? It should have been obvious that it would come up sooner or later. Then again, it wasn't like John would have known how the hell you were supposed to take care of a damned catheter.

"We'll stop at the next gas station," John says, because it isn't like he can tell Harry to keep it in. They're only an hour into what even under the best of circumstances would be at least a twelve hour car drive – twelve hours that is, without any stops. "That okay?" John adds. He's been hooked up to a catheter and who knows what that does to a man's ability to keep it in. John's learned from experience that he doesn't like cleaning piss from his car – sometimes when a kid says he has to go, he really has to go right then and there.

"I believe I'll manage," Harry answers, and John thinks he hears a smile in the tone of voice. He glances at him through the rear view mirror, but laid out like he is he can't really see Harry's face.

Thankfully it's not that long before they hit a rest stop. It's blessedly quiet, maybe because of the late hour, and John doesn't care about the reason as long as it makes his life a bit easier. Less people means less of a chance of anyone wondering why he's hauling around a kid in hospital scrubs and an obscene amount of casts.

Once they're in the car again, the ordeal over for now – sooner or later they'll have to do it again – Harry pants quietly. From pain probably, and exhaustion. His breaths shudder as he draws them in.

John's hand is on the key in the ignition. "You alright?" he asks, looking into the rear view mirror. He still can't really see Harry's face.

"Not really," Harry answers, his voice quiet and shaky. He sounds resigned, like he knows that there's nothing at all that can be done about it.

John nods. "Yeah," he says and turns the key in the ignition.

If Harry says something it's drowned by the rumble of the engine, but John doesn't think he does.

It's forty miles later when Harry speaks again. "I should thank you, I think, for saving my life."

It doesn't sound like gratitude. He sounds like he isn't really sure if he should thank John or not – maybe he'd have an easier time deciding if John told him that he's still prepared to kill Harry, in case it turns out he needs killing.

"Did I?" he asks.

A pair of headlights fly past them in the dark, and John has time to wonder if Harry's goint to say anything else at all.

"I don't know." The answer comes at last, hollow and bitter, and John can't help but think that he's telling the truth.

His Colt is within hands reach – with a stranger he doesn't quite trust in the car, of course it is – and John almost moves to take it. It's as close to an admission as Harry's come, because anything _human_ would have died, but Harry's still helpless in the backseat and it just doesn't seem enough of a reason to shoot someone – not when all John has is still just suspicions, and the kid in the backseat hasn't done anything at all that he knows of.

He wants to ask, straight out, what Harry is. If he's a witch or something else. But there isn't much of a chance he'd answer that question. There's something unnatural about him though, but if what he's told John is the truth then there'd almost have to be. And the way Harry's never seemed to wonder about all of it – if it really is true – is just plain suspicious.

"That's not good." The words slip out before John's really given them much thought. They almost sound like a warning, one made out of concern.

The sigh sounds like resignation. "That I do know," Harry answers him. John would really like to know if he's supposed to read something into that.

"Yeah?"

There's no immediate answer, and that wasn't much of a question either. John was just hoping that Harry might feel like elaborating on that.

"I'm well aware that you're suspecting me of _something, _John." His name sounds too familiar again, it reminds him uncomfortably of the fact that, considering the circumstances, he's letting Harry get way too close to him. "While I'm not used to the way things work here, I'm not stupid enough not to realise that lying to the hospital and the police, and then sneaking me out in the middle of the night isn't how people normally handle things."

"Why'd you go along with it then?" It's not that John thought Harry wouldn't realise the fishiness of all that's been going on, but when stated like that it suddenly seems very strange that Harry did go along with the lie. He could have just told the cops he had no idea who John was, and John couldn't have done much of anything about it.

"Because I suspect you're the best chance I have of figuring out what happened."

There's not much to say to that, because all things considered Harry's probably right about that. And when did he actually start thinking Harry might be telling the truth with his crazy little story?

After a while John pops a tape into the deck. He turns the volume high enough that conversation isn't the first thing on anyone's mind. The silence was getting to be uncomfortable.

By the time they finally arrive, Harry's passed out on the backseat, and the day long drive has stretched out into the next morning. They haven't said anything that would have meant anything since that first conversation – if it could even be called that. But there's been enough stops, and at some point the forced intimacy had stopped feeling uncomfortable. And the quiet had lost its awkwardness.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry's felt helpless before, too many times in fact – when Dumbledore died, when Voldemort seemed impossible to defeat, whenever one of his kids were hurt, when he was too late to save someone – but this is a different, completely new kind of helplessness. He isn't used to this. If feeling useless and unable to do anything is something you can ever really get used to.

Maybe this is all just because he's too used to magical healing. Swift and easy, compared to this muggle way of doing things. Magical healing was painful sometimes, sure, but it came with a promise of a relatively swift end to the pain. He hadn't realised how spoiled he'd become, and now this slow, drawn out process of healing is something he almost doesn't know how to handle.

He's been bed ridden in the past, sometimes for days or weeks even. And it's not the same, at all. Magic makes things so much neater and easier. All the side effects of being stuck to a bed for days on end are so different now that there's no one to wave a wand to take care of the little realities of it. Besides there's nothing that makes a wizard feel quite so helpless as taking away their wand and then immobilising them, at least muggles are used to existing without magic. It doesn't help much to know that there are still things he can do without a wand, it doesn't change that feeling much at all. After all, he's almost certain that trying any of those things is liable to get him shot.

But the worst of it all is having to rely on the mercy of strangers. That's all he has been able to do since he tumbled, painfully, into this world that seems so like, yet entirely different, than his own. The hospital was bad enough, with its professional strangers. The experience of travelling with John, or indeed any experience with John has not been entirely pleasant – even if he'll admit that the man has started to grow on him. Harry suspects though that in most cases having another man's hands on your prick is something of a bonding experience (he's old enough by now not to be quite as embarrassed by the whole thing as he might have been once, a long time ago. Like John seems to still be – it's almost endearing in some strange way).

Bobby Singer is something completely new. Again. Someone Harry has no choice but to trust, or at least pretend to. Because there is no way he can fully trust any of these people, not the muggles in the hospital or these two muggles with disturbing images of things that do not belong in the muggle world. Images of things that do not let him forget that this cannot be his home, in any time. Here he is at the mercy of strangers that do not trust him, who will doubt his every move and who Harry has to rely on for _everything._

It's not that he dislikes Bobby, for Merlin's sake, he doesn't even know the man (and that's the problem really). If Harry's forced to give an opinion about the matter, Bobby seems like a good sort. It doesn't change the fact that he hates the situation he's in. Helpless in every sense of the word.

* * *

><p>It's damned hard not to think of him as a kid, John's right about that at least. And god damn John Winchester anyway for leaving the kid – Harry – with him. Not that Bobby hadn't agreed when he called and explained the situation, because what the hell was he supposed to do? It's not like he could in good conscience have told John to kill the kid anymore than he could have told him to leave him at the hospital – who knows what could have happened.<p>

And there are some things John has conveniently forgotten to tell him about, aren't there? Like the fact that the kid has to be nuts. The older-than-he-seems bit, Bobby can still take, barely. But time travel? That's just a bit too much, even after all he's seen and read about.

Still, there's no real way John could look after the kid, and whatever John thinks about him – and it's unsettling how unsure Bobby is about that, usually John is far more straightforward in his opinions about the supernatural – there sure as hell ain't no way John's gonna have him near the boys. That last part at least is something Bobby has to agree on. There's no good to be had in introducing Harry to the boys, especially if it turns out that... well, that he ain't something they can let live. And what Bobby won't do for John, he'll do for the sake of those boys (close as he'll ever get to having his own, he thinks).

And that's all there is to it. There aren't that many people John can ask for help with something like this and that's not just because John Winchester is one disagreeable son of a bitch and doesn't have that many people to ask, period (he doesn't, even if there are more than a few hunters that owe John a favour or two as much as they don't like it, or John). But because a lot of the hunters John knows – and there isn't a hunter John knows that Bobby doesn't, so he knows what he's talking about here – would just plain shoot the kid. Better safe than sorry. It's not like he can really blame most hunters for thinking like that, they have their reasons, some of them are even good ones. And sometimes shooting first and asking questions later is the only way to stay alive.

That's why it's Bobby who's stuck with this kid that might not be a kid at all, who's too injured to do anything on his own. Anything, that is, that can't be done while lying in bed, using only one hand. And that's not a whole hell of a lot.

John says that the hand that seems to be completely fine now – when they unwrapped it on Harry's insistence – had been pretty much crushed. He knows that people don't usually come back from an injury like that without losing some mobility, but he never saw the injury himself and can't say for sure if it was bad enough.

At least he won't have to hand feed the kid.

And of course John was ready to take off the moment he'd dumped the kid in the guest bedroom – and no, getting Harry up a flight of stairs had been anything but easy. At least he's pretty much secure there, for now. Bobby told John, in no uncertain terms, that he was damned well staying for at least a few days, to make sure the kid settled in or some such shit. He was surprised when John hadn't really argued – well, of course he had argued, this was John Winchester he was talking about, but he hadn't protested enough for Bobby to think he really minded staying for a bit. Bobby still isn't sure what to make of that.

There's one thing that's sure and that's the fact that Bobby ain't no damned nursemaid. Of course it's going to be damn well awkward having a complete stranger in the house. He doesn't trust Harry as far as he can throw him – and with that amount of plaster all over him that ain't too damned far. So no, he's not going to have John leave him alone with the kid any sooner than necessary. Besides, with all of Bobby's books around, who knows what he might find in them, if he really is some kind of witch. And yeah, sure, at the moment Harry's safely tucked away in the guest bedroom, but if there's withcy stuff going on then Bobby has no idea how much he can trust that either.

All of this should be obvious to anyone, which is why Bobby isn't sure what the hell is going on with John, when he actually suggests giving some of Bobby's books to Harry to read. That's the most fucking _stupid_ idea he's heard in a long time.

They've only been at his place for two days and John is already getting on his nerves. He sure has a nack for it.

He takes a step towards John. "Are you fucking kidding me? You said it your damned self, the kid ain't normal. You honestly think that's a good idea?"

John shrugs and shifts a bit where he's leaning against the kitchen counter – the kitchen is far enough away that no one should be able to hear them from the guest bedroom. "He's gonna go nuts just lying in bed, doing nothing."

Bobby snorts. "From what you've told me, he's already as nutty as a fruitcake."

John's lips twitch a bit at that. He rubs a hand along the side of the cluttered surface behind him. "Well, there's no need to make it worse," John says, sounding almost defensive. He should, because that's one of the more idiotic arguments Bobby's heard in a while – and that's coming from someone who makes a habit of dealing with people who think 'it's evil, 'cause I said so' is a perfectly acceptable justification.

"Don't tell me you're buying that crazy talk about time travel?"

John shifts again and doesn't quite meet Bobby's eyes.

"You are!"

"Don't be stupid," John snaps and frowns angrily. "I know what it sounds like, but so does Harry. And he still believes in it."

There's a moment of quiet. A frustrated look appears on John's face. Bobby doesn't try to hide the look of disbelief. "That doesn't even make any damned sense."

John doesn't even try to argue the point, just gives another shrug. "He wants to know what happened and so do I. And _I_ don't have the time to do the research and I'm sure you have better things to do..." he lets the sentence trail off.

"If he's telling the truth – and that's one hell of an if – what makes you think he'll tell you if he finds anything."

"I don't know. Maybe he won't, but he'll stay here and you can go ahead and find out what he is." Bobby notices that there's no if in John's statement, and he can't quite wrap his head around John Winchester being sure about something being supernatural and still willing to give it another chance. What the hell is it about the kid?

"And what about when he cuts my throat in my sleep?"

It's John's turn to snort and give him a disbelieving look. "Are you saying you can't take one single witch?"

"Not in my sleep," Bobby grumbles.

It's not like they resolve anything with that little chat – honestly, Bobby ain't too sure he even knows what that talk was really about – and that's why he's not quite sure how come he still ends up handing Harry a couple of his books. Carefully selected ones of course, ones that don't have any kind of descriptions on _how_ to perform any kind of rituals.

He watches as Harry awkwardly flips through a few pages of one of the books and there's no missing the expression that spreads on his face. The hope in his eyes is almost painful to look at. When he looks at Bobby with those too bright eyes and says "thank you" in a very deliberate tone of voice, Bobby can't quite find it in him to doubt the sincerity.

"No problem," he says gruffly, before leaving the kid alone.

* * *

><p>Harry looks up from one of the books Bobby has kindly provided him with when someone walks into the room he's been given.<p>

"You're leaving," he tells John. It's not that difficult to figure out, it's nothing to do with magic this time, John just has that look about him that people usually do when they're saying goodbye – he's been about to leave since they arrived here, and Harry's honestly surprised that he's stayed for these last few days. He's also surprisingly grateful for it, or maybe it isn't that surprising; John is the closest thing to something familiar in this world he's stuck in now.

John looks startled at his words and Harry wonders if this is another thing he's adding to his list of things-that-make-Harry-suspicious.

It's probably a rather long list by now.

"Yeah, I am," John answers him.

Harry has to remind himself that he can't tell John that it's completely understandable that he wants to get back to his boys by now. John's never mentioned the boys and around here Harry has no reputation of casual and slightly eccentric all-knowingness to hide behind. He doesn't think John would take it well.

Besides, he's not sure John would care a whit about how Harry feels about his leaving. There's no need for Harry to offer reassurances.

"Will you be back?" he asks instead, trying to make it sound as casual as possible. He wishes he could ask about his wand, but if there's good reason not to mention John's children, there's equally good reason not to bring up that. There's no need to make John reconsider his decision to help Harry. He can live without his wand for a while.

"Yeah, sooner or later," John shrugs, like it's no big deal. Like they don't already both know that he cannot leave Harry be while he still suspects him of something. Harry doesn't point this out, it doesn't seem the polite thing to do.

* * *

><p>It takes them a couple of days to find a workable compromise after John leaves. That happens to be a situation where they don't say much to each other, beyond the absolutely necessary, and where Bobby brings Harry a new book on different supernatural lore every once in a while.<p>

Bobby still isn't thrilled about letting Harry read those books. Not a good thing at all when he isn't too sure what the kid is. But from what John said – and he's still not sure he believes a word of it, because... well, _damn_ – but he's pretty sure he knows what Harry's looking for.

He seems determined to read through all of Bobby's library, if that's what it takes. And you kind of have to respect that sort of determination, suspicious as it may be. He thinks about not letting the kid have any more books to read and each time he finds that he doesn't quite have the heart to do so. It's getting to where he isn't even thinking about it that much anymore.

He's pretty sure that's going to come back and bite him in the ass, sooner or later. But how much trouble can one person be?

Yeah, it's never good when you start asking yourself that.

That's how it goes until he walks into Harry's room with breakfast and a new book and Harry insists that he wants the casts off. Which would be just fine and dandy – Bobby'd be more than happy not to have to help the kid with things neither of them wants him to – but it hasn't been near long enough for those bones to heal naturally. Not to mention the other injuries Harry has – or had, at least. He doesn't really doubt Harry when he says that he'll be fine with taking the casts off and that, by all accounts, is a bad thing.

It figures that in this line of work removing a cast from someone was a skill he'd learn sooner or later. He figures it's easier than going through the hassle of making up lies for a hospital.

He fails to be surprised when it turns out that Harry was right. He's weak without the casts, of course, but otherwise good enough. It's all another tick in the not-so-human column.

At least Harry can get his own damned books now.

Yeah, there's no way of that going wrong.

* * *

><p>Harry stares down the flight of stairs. Bobby agreed to take of his casts last night, and hadn't that been something of an adventure, one Harry is not eager to repeat in the near future. His legs are wobbly and too weak from weeks of doing nothing but lying down, and the chance of him making his way down those stairs without falling does not seem too good.<p>

He can faintly hear a vague clatter that he associates with food being prepared and can only assume that Bobby is in the process of making breakfast.

Harry hadn't been too clear headed when he arrived here, but he still remembers the books haphazardly decorating what he assumes must once have been the living room. Downstairs. Beyond that flight of stairs.

He leans against the wall, his legs shaking with the effort to stay upright. Slowly he pushes himself away from the wall, grabs hold of the railing with his left hand – his left arm is stronger than the previously broken right. He leans heavily on the railing as he inches his way down the stairs, the faint clatter of dishes drowned out by the beating of his own heart. He suspects Bobby would not be too happy to find him here.

His first impression of Bobby had been entirely correct; he is a good sort. Harry likes him well enough, even if he knows Bobby doesn't trust him and doesn't really like having Harry in his house. Still, he makes sure that Harry gets fed and doesn't even grumble too much about the books now. Though that latter part may change now that Harry's mobile and making his own way towards the books. He suspects that he will not find what he's looking for in the books that Bobby would approve of.

He almost trips on his next shaky step down the stairs, hangs on by his grip on the railing and bites back a yelp of pain. Maybe he could sit down for a moment. Rest for a while. But no, Bobby will not be that long anymore, he thinks, and Harry's determined to make his way downstairs – to the books – before Bobby notices.

There's one thing he has to find, no matter what; a way to get back home. This far there hasn't been anything even remotely useful and the things he reads about... they are so very different from how they are at home – almost familiar in some ways, but entirely different in others – that it just seems to make things worse. Reading about the magic in this world is like trying to remember something he can't quite grasp. But the more he reads, the clearer it is that he can't keep comparing things to the way they are at home, this place is something entirely different. If he doesn't learn to understand this world on its own terms... he'll be liable to do some utterly stupid mistakes.

What if he finds the answer and doesn't understand it? There is magic here, he's read about it and he can _feel_ it. But what he's seen in John's mind – and in Bobby's when he looked – is entirely wrong. What kind of world is it where so much of the magic is twisted into something dark? Because he can feel the magic here and it's _not_ dark by nature, it's not the tamed, domesticated magic he's used to feeling – and it's not like that was all he knew at home – this is wild, raw and untamed magic. It's magic that bites back – dangerous, but not any darker than any other natural phenomena.

There are hints in the books that Bobby has given him about things that seem horrifying, things Harry doesn't think he wants to read about. There's been enough general information in those safe, non-specific books that Harry doesn't want to imagine how those things would be accomplished. Thinking of it makes his stomach churn. He's seen his fair share of dark rituals and dark magic – even performed some – things he wishes he had never borne witness to. Some of the things he's been reading about, if he finds out more about them, he suspects they might rival even some of the darkest of the things Harry has seen.

He takes another shaky step down the stairs and realises there are no more steps. He leans against the wall for a moment and closes his eyes, takes a deep, if shaky, breath. Now he just needs to move over to the books, at least there is not much chance of injuring himself now. The way down to the floor is not that far.

A bang and a metallic clatter makes his eyes spring open. There's not that much time. He braces himself and takes one more step.

He will learn. He will learn as much as he has to if it gets him home. But there has been nothing yet and Harry would stake his wand on the fact that there is more information in the books Bobby doesn't give him.

* * *

><p>Bobby stops in his tracks, breakfast tray trembling slightly in his suddenly too tight grip. Harry's sitting on the floor in one corner of the living room, eyes eagerly roaming over the pages of the book clutched in his hands. He can't see what the book is, but he's sure it's not one he would have given Harry.<p>

"I see you managed to get down without breaking your neck," he says, voice tight with the restrained urge to go rip the book from the damned fool's hands.

Startled, Harry looks up – it's the first time Bobby's ever seen him taken so unaware; the walk must really have taken something out of him. Quickly Harry's features settle into calm determination, but Bobby can see now that he's white as a sheet and the book in his hands is trembling slightly.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that the reason he's sitting on the floor is probably because he didn't have it in him to move any further. Bobby's trying to remember which books were in that corner of the room and if there was anything really bad there.

Harry lowers the book into his lap and meets Bobby's eyes.

"Barely," he admits and Bobby's surprised by the honesty. But then, he reminds himself, Harry's not like most people he knows, who'd deny any weakness, even when it's blatantly obvious.

"In that case you can eat your breakfast in the kitchen like normal people," Bobby tells him and turns around. He walks straight into the kitchen and sets the tray on the table, not looking back to see if the kid's managing to get himself up from the floor and over to the kitchen.

He grabs his own food and sits himself down. If Harry can't get to the kitchen then he can just be without breakfast – or eat it cold when he does finally manage to get there, because if this morning is any kind of indication then Bobby's been saddled with another stupidly stubborn son of a bitch.

He's almost finished with his own breakfast when Harry stumbles into the room, leaning against the wall like it's the only thing holding him up. He seems even paler than a while ago, shaky and panting. Bobby doesn't say anything.

Harry takes a few steadying breaths, tries to calm down the panting without any remarkable success, before pushing away from the wall and stumblingly manages the few steps to the chair. He slumps down to it with relief.

Bobby finishes his own breakfast while Harry's still trying to catch his breath. He stays sitting across from Harry even after his own plate is empty.

"You'd think I'd grown out of this sort of stupidity by now," Harry says thoughtfully after some time.

Bobby snorts and Harry grins at him before picking up his fork with a shaky hand. Bobby watches him eat quietly for a while before getting up, moving his own empty plate to the sink.

There's one thing he's pretty sure of, and that's that there's no way Harry will accidentally let slip what he is. That's a big part of the reason he is at Bobby's and not some hospital somewhere, so they can try to find out the truth. Or at least find out enough to know if he's dangerous, some kind of _monster __–_something they need to kill.

Most of what he's heard from John seems like crazy talk – and maybe some of it would make more sense if he heard it from Harry – but crazy don't make him evil. And that's what Bobby really wants to know. All he can do is watch and wait and hope that Harry stays content in reading those books and doesn't feel the need to do anything.

God damn John Winchester anyway.

* * *

><p>Harry stares at his reflection in the mirror. He remembers being seventeen and looking like that. He wishes there was a full length mirror somewhere he could look at, because he wants to be sure if everything is just like it was back then.<p>

He looks down at his own naked body, his hands brushing down too smooth skin. He touches himself and even knowing what he looks like now, he still expects that his palms should feel rougher. He can see, and feel, the absence of old scars even without a mirror, but he wants to be sure. But he's stuck with this little thing in Bobby's bathroom, maybe there's something somewhere in the house, but he doesn't want to ask.

His left hand rubs at the raised skin over his heart, his eyes following the movement of his fingers over pink, scarred flesh. That's something different, something that was never there before. It looks like a burn, a brand. And even though he hasn't seen the mark in years, there is no mistaking the mark of the Hallows.

He doesn't know what it means or why it's there, but coupled with the face in the mirror – it's not too hard to guess.

His hand clenches over the mark, his blunt nails digging into soft flesh. Maybe he's wrong, but he really doesn't think so.

* * *

><p>Harry's lounging in the doorway to the kitchen – for once he isn't buried nose deep in a book – watching Bobby's attempt at making food. It's not that the food is bad, it's edible enough and Harry isn't particularly picky about food. It's been a long time, but some things you never forget and Harry knows too well what it's like to go without food.<p>

He hasn't any reason to complain, actually considering the fact that Bobby buys and makes Harry's food, he's more than grateful for what he gets. It's not like he's been anything but a burden to the man.

"I could do that," Harry says quietly and at first he's not even sure that Bobby hears him. "I could prepare the food," he says just slightly louder. It feels like he's intruding and any louder would just be rude. "I used to be good at it."

"There something wrong with the food?" Bobby asks without turning to look, and Harry can't really tell if he's offended or not. He never really sounds anything but a bit grumpy.

"No," Harry says just as quiet as before. "Not at all. I'd just like to help."

Bobby snorts, like that's enough of an answer. And maybe it would be, but then he turns to give Harry a look and there's something that looks like pity on his face.

"Not yet kid," Bobby says reluctantly.

And Harry thinks he understands what's being said. He could look and make sure, but it doesn't seem quite right to do so. So he doesn't and just nods, because Bobby doesn't trust him yet. Not _yet_, and maybe that means that one day he will. Right now, in this place where Harry has nothing and no one, that feels like plenty.

Bobby turns back to his cooking and doesn't see the smile on Harry's lips.

* * *

><p>The phone rings again, and it's probably the fifth time today. It's only just past ten and with this rate it'll be one damned long day.<p>

Bobby's itching to go out on a hunt, to get out of the house for a while. But there's no way he can leave, not with Harry in the house – and he damned sure ain't taking him with him. And of course all the hunters out there _know_ he's at home and manning the phone. There wouldn't be much use to the whole thing otherwise.

It's not like it's a bad thing exactly, he's one of the few ones with a permanent place to stay and it's been a natural sort of thing to become one of the people hunters use to relay information. There's a few others like him around, not enough sometimes, but they make do. So, yeah, it's not that he minds really, but sometimes it just gets to be a bit too much.

To be fair three out of those phone calls has been the same guy, and maybe that doesn't count. Bobby's doing the best he damned well can, it's not like the lore is just there when he wants it to. Research takes time, damn it.

"Singer Salvage Yard," he says into the phone, because it's his personal phone and it's business hours and you never know – some days he actually gets some business.

"How's the kid?" a voice asks and it doesn't take a lot of effort to figure out who it is, there's just one person who knows about Harry. Still, John could do with learning to introduce himself at least. Bobby gets too many phone calls to recognise every one by the distorted sounds of their voices. But do any of them think about that?

"Still just fine. You planning to get here to deal with this mess of yours any time soon?"

Of course he isn't, that'd be too much to ask. But Bobby asks anyway.

"Soon as I can," he answers and, knowing John, that could mean anything at all.

"So, what do you need?"

Because it just figures that there can't be any other reason why John would be calling today of all days, when there's already too much research to do. Besides John never calls just to chat. Bobby holds back the snort that threatens to escape; nobody ever calls him just to chat. And since he's calling this phone number and starting the conversation like he did, it's pretty clear that it's information he's after and most likely nothing incredibly urgent.

"Is that John?" Harry asks from where he's suddenly leaning against the doorjamb, distracting Bobby just enough that he misses whatever it is that John's saying. Kid's too sneaky sometimes, and Bobby's learned that even with his nose buried in a book, Harry can be way too perceptive. It's best just not to say things he doesn't want him to overhear.

"Yeah," he tells Harry shortly and is about to tell John to repeat himself when Harry pipes up again.

"If it's research he needs I can deal with whatever it is," Harry offers. "I know those books as well as anyone at this point and I should be able to find what he needs."

"Hang on for a second," Bobby says into the receiver, cutting off whatever it is John is telling him.

The offer's tempting enough, it'd already be a miracle and a half if he manages to find out the information he's already promised to have on hand as soon as possible – and there are kids' lives at stake with that one, and there's no way he won't do his best to deliver. There's no time to start looking for information for John as well.

"You sure?" he asks Harry, holding the receiver away from his mouth.

"I am," Harry answers, taking a few steps inside the room and holding out his hand to take the phone from Bobby.

He hesitates for one more short moment before he hands it over. Harry gives him a brief smile before he lifts it to his ear.

"John?" he says into the phone. There's a moment of quiet on this end. "Bobby is busy," Harry says after a while, the calm tone somewhat belied by the tightness of his mouth, but that's something John can't see and it's not meant for Bobby either.

He leaves them to it, he's got books to go through and not nearly enough time to do it in.

* * *

><p>Harry stares down at the book in front of him. He can't really see the words on the page anymore – not that he needs to, he's read them already and there's nothing new they can tell him. There's nothing new any of the books here can tell him. He's read them and none of them will tell him what he wants to know.<p>

He's known for a while now, but he's been hoping he's wrong.

He's had more than enough time to think about what happened to him. The mark on his chest, his de-aged body, the summoning he finally pestered John into telling him enough about that he's sure that the pages in front of him are describing just the right one.

He hasn't found an answer, and maybe there are other places to look yet, but it feels like he's spent too long in this world as it is. He wants to go home. So he's made his own answer, he hopes it will work, but if it doesn't – it doesn't really matter.


	3. Epilogue

The dogs are too quiet. They don't rush out to greet him like they usually would, they only wag their tails quietly. There's a faint smell of ozone in the air.

Something isn't right.

Bobby's home sooner than he'd thought he'd be. The hunt had been clear and straightforward for once and there wasn't any reason to stay for longer.

He walks through the living room and the house seems empty. These days that ain't quite right.

Harry's been living with him for the better part of a year now and Bobby stopped worrying about leaving him alone a while back. He goes out hunting sometimes, like he did before John dumped the kid at his place. He's never going to admit it, but it actually makes it easier with Harry around, at least he doesn't need to get anyone to feed the dogs.

It'd taken him a long time to trust Harry enough to even think about leaving him alone at his place.

He likes Harry well enough and this far he hasn't done anything to make Bobby doubt him. Even so, he's still not completely sure how far he'd be willing to trust him when it comes to anything else.

They still aren't too sure what Harry is. He's not been real forthcoming about it, but he's said enough to make Bobby suspect a lot of things. Still, he ain't done nothing to warrant shooting him. Actually, he's been a help. Bobby damn sure didn't mind when Harry took over most dealings with John Winchester. Harry isn't allowed to answer the phones – as far as Bobby's concerned, he never will be - but when it's John he'll hand over the phone and let Harry find him the lore he needs. The kid hasn't got the experience Bobby does, but he probably knows Bobby's books better than he does at this point.

There might be worse things than being stuck with Harry.

But he's almost never anywhere else than inside, reading those books. He's got good reason for it too, at least Harry believes he does, and by now Bobby doesn't doubt his belief in it at least.

What Bobby himself thinks of the whole thing ain't nobody's business but his own.

Right now, Harry isn't anywhere in the house.

Once he gets outside it doesn't take him long to find Harry. And maybe he should have followed that smell of ozone to begin with, but habit made him expect finding the kid inside.

The blood's soaked into the ground. It stains the gravel in a large patch around Harry. He's lying in the middle of it – fallen on one side. (_Body_ his mind says when he sees it, not _Harry_).

That's going to take some work to hide, he'll need more gravel.

Blood stains Harry's arms, smeared over his forearms, like he's been rubbing bloody hands over them. The front of his t-shirt is wet with blood, the stain still spreading from where the dagger's sticking out from his chest.

There are some markings drawn into a circle in the ground and the blood's worn out some of it and the rest Bobby doesn't recognise much of. Doesn't look much like any sort of summoning, but then he's pretty sure Harry never wanted to _summon_ anything.

"Idjit," he mutters and there isn't much more to say.

He'll have to get in touch with John.

centerTHE END/center


End file.
